I’ll be uploading some poetry and shorter things I’ve written over the past few years soon. These will be about hiking, yoga, relationships, and who knows what else. Here’s a preview for now:

“Dream Girls”

All those dream girls,
In plaid button downs,
Wearing dirty trucker hats
Climbing ALL mountains,

That gusto-gumption,
Unapologetic-libertas,
Damn girl you got it!
Gimme some of that!

Crest-made smiles,
Blinding like a snow pass,
Sharp wit, defiance,
and swagger to match.

Louis Vuittons?
Altra’s please! Thank you.
Gearing up?
Maybe a ‘lil ULA too?

The only kids she wants?
Sour-Patch in her resupply!
You wanna dance?
Let’s see those snacks guy…

Cause she’s tramping hard,
Racking those miles,
Your twenty-fives,
Barely move’n her dial.

So keep training boy,
Or start taking classes!
Do you even know,
Where Forester pass is?

Bring her a burger,
She might stay a while,
Then she’s gone with the shade,
With her hiker-trash smile.

Tater and I woke on the tent pad, pretty stoked for the day. We had made reservations for a private room at the Green Mountain House. Better yet, reservations for two days. We were taking a zero.

Shoelace The Snorer had struck again. As we passed the shelter on our way back to trail, we came upon the upset chain smoker from yesterday. He was chatting with Rainbow, a thru hiker from Utah. Rainbow explained to the three of us the events of the night before.

“I told him, man if you don’t pitch your tent, I’m going to wake you up everytime you wake ME up. And I did! Four times! He claimed he had no idea he snored so badly, but surely someone must have told him by now? The audacity! He has no right to sleep in a shelter and disturb everyone else.”

Later, as Tater and I turned onto the AT proper, she mused.

“Ah, the trail gossip!”

I laughed and we both agreed. When snoring is the biggest worry you have, you’re in a great place in life!

The goal of the day was to get down to Manchester Center and stay at our beloved Green Mountain House. Tater stayed there with her mother in 2018, and I stayed with my trail family in 2019. Friendly, and impeccably clean, it’s my favorite hostel on the AT.

We made the road crossing by late morning and found Shoelace The Snorer sitting on a boulder in the shade.

“I have a ride coming in from a hotel, but it’s not actually in town. Might be worth asking though, maybe the shuttle will take you into town anyway?”

It was a lovely offer, so Tater and I joined the barrel-chested Mainer in the shade. I rather adore Shoelace’s relaxed demeanor, and his many trail stories. He makes me feel less self-conscious when I go on telling a half-dozen of my own. The poor guy cannot help that he’s a chainsaw at night.

While we were waiting a Subaru pulled up, containing a former thru hiker from 2014, or something. He was pretty blitzed, and his trail name may well have been “Frat Boy.” Tater and I refused his beers, Shoelace followed suit. We all lied that we were current-year’s thru’s in some unspoken effort not to upset the man.

Nevertheless our refusal perturbed him, and after recounting some kind of poem related to his trail name –at least fifteen stanzas long, he departed.

“What the actual fuck?” Tater said aloud. It was on all of our minds. Like the sad former high school quarterback, ever telling bar stories of his glory days, so was this man.

Finally our ride arrived, in the form of a very beautiful and well-maintained Land Rover. After some convincing, along with the full brunt of Shoelace’s charm, we secured a ride into town. The driver was smitten with Tater instantly. Who isn’t?

He ran us straight into Manchester Center, and even did a loop to give us a tour. We grew on him, especially when we took care to keep our trekking pole tips away from the truck’s headliner. He vocally appreciated this.

After passing restaurant upon enticing, food-smell-pouring restaurant, we pulled into the Price Chopper. Our driver refused cash from Tater and wished us safe journey. Shoelace smiled and said goodbye.

Resupply was efficient, this being our second or third Price Chopper so far. We rolled out with enough rolls, cold cuts, and condiments to make half a dozen sandwiches too. We called Duffy at Green Mountain House, and he reminded us to grab our dinner items before he arrived. Tater went in and brought me out a frozen pizza I had never tried before.

Duffy rolled in, and recognized me from 2019.

“I thought I recognized the name!” He said and we shook hands. My last stay was with Crusher and Sage, among many others. Apparently we had made a positive impression.

We got another tour of town, though Duffy had several historical facts to add.

“This is the tavern where the Green Mountain Boys gathered before heading down the mountain to meet the British. Rooms here are about $400 a night!”

We pulled into the hostel and checked our shoes and poles at the door. Leaving your shoes on a rack outside is standard at most hostels, but GMH is adamant about poles too. It keeps the walls and carpet intact!

The place was exactly as I left it in 2019. Memories flooded back. It made me miss Sage even more. I’m glad I’ll see him soon.

We set about the requisit pack-explosions. Gear was damp, but not soaked. Armed with my loofah, wet-hair comb, and regular comb I made for the shower. What makes a good hostel a great hostel? Conditioner. GMH has full-sized bottles.

Rainbow was hanging out down stairs in the living room, along with a Long Trail Sobo named Splint. His finger was still wrapped and braced. While Tater was in the shower, he filled me in on the gnarly realities of the Long Trail north of the Maine Junction. I’ve wanted to see these miles for myself for years.

I also met Merit, a short woman in her mid-forties. Tater and I would come to love Merit. Her lightning wit and matter-of-fact anecdotes were a delight.

Tater came out of the shower goddess fresh, as she always miraculously seems to. After cuddling up with a few episodes of Schitts Creek, and devouring our $1 pints of Ben & Jerry’s we started getting sleepy. The dollar first pint is a staple of the Mountain House. I’m glad that hasn’t changed!

     “Is that coming from the shelter?”  Tater asked around 10pm.  It was.  Someone was snoring so loud the roof was literally reverberating.  In this way the shelter was acting like a guitar body, and the opening was facing our way.  Even seventy-five feet away, and some thirty below the shelter, it was loud enough to startle us out of sleep. 

Tater had earplugs, and once recognized, I was able to tune the sound out and drift back to sleep.  Until another person woke us around eight in the morning.

     “HELLO!?”  

     “Wow, you have to be kidding me.”  I muttered angrily.  A section hiker had just finished speaking with the last stragglers in the shelter.  They spoke in woods voices, he still had his loud city tone.  Now that they were gone, he decided to call home.  Some poor soul on the other line was given ALL the details, and well, so were we.

An accurate reenaction:  https://youtu.be/dhk_OL-5aVo

Tater and I gave up and deflated our sleeping pads.  The rain had cleared, and the sun was busy drying our damp home.  By the time we got up the hill to the picnic table, our section hiker had left.  Off to audibly assault new victims no doubt. 

Slowly the grumpyness left me.  Some muesli and a cup of coffee stemming the flow of expletives.  Besides, today was to be a beautiful day.  We’d be ascending Stratton Mountain, and sleeping near Stratton Pond. 

We broke camp, but before we left the couple with the two labs came in.  I feel bad at not having gotten their names, but the husband is a ranger in the White Mountains, and his wife hiked the AT in 1997.  They are section hiking the Long Trail, and are lovely people.  We talked with them about trail work, and pet their dogs for half an hour.   

We ran into them again at the following shelter, where we stopped for a break.  Another hiker was there when we arrived, smoking cigarette after cigarette and relating his tale from the night before.

     “I packed my shit and left man!  I mean seriously, at twelve thirty A. M. I realized I was never going to sleep.  I think his name was Shoelace, or something like that?” 

The barrel-chested Mainer Tater and I had met before, was our snoring culprit. If snoring is the proper word.  Imitating backwoods chainsaws morelike!

As we neared the base of Stratton, there was an RV in the parking lot.  It had a massive blue and white AT emblem painted on the side, with three kayaks on top.  This was the home of the Icecream Man. 

He grated us with an icecream sandwich each.  Then he proceeded into a rant about organized religion, going all the way back to Genisis and the Tree of Knowledge.  I do not remember his trail name now, but when I spoke it to Cool Cucumber he said it translated to “useful” in either Hebrew or Latin.  My efforts to reverse translate it since have failed. 

The AT is full of eccentric wonderful folks, and the Icecream Man is just one!  We continued our miles.

Overall the twelve miles to Stratton were fairly easy.  The ground was strewn with soft beds of pine needles, and patches of rock, which increased the closer we got to Stratton.   Finally we made the summit, where we met an older hiker named Appleseed. 

He was too timid to ascend the old fire tower, and remained steadfast even after we boasted about the view.  A shy, wiry fellow with thick glasses, he was certainly kind, but perhaps our enegy was a bit much for him?

It was remarkably quiet on top of Stratton that day, with only one more day hiker coming through to check out the tower. 

We decided to push on and complete our last four miles, a gentle descent to Stratton Pond.  We made it to the shelter first, one of those run by the Green Mountain Club.

The caretaker was off, and so we didn’t have to pay the usual $5 fee to stay.  It’s a one-time purchase for a card, giving you access to all the shelters and campsites in the GMC network.  The club puts tremendous effort into trail work, building privies, and maintaining the integrity of natural resources in the area.  I’ve never minded the fee because of this.

This year, one of their big projects at Stratton Pond, was to provide wooden tent platforms.  After seeing Shoelace, our beloved though loudly snoring Mainer, we decided to take one of these for the night.

It took a little hiker trash engineering to pitch the Gossamer Gear on such a surface.  After using nearly all the bear bag line as a sort of load-bearing cat’s cradle, the result was surprisingly taut.

We returned to the shelter to cook dinner, and brought our meals down to the pond when they were ready.  The banks of Stratton Pond is one of my favorite spots on the whole trail.  In 2019 Sage and I sat here with some southbounders, discussing meditation among other things.  I texted him a photo.  He replied nearly instantly with approval, and questions about our upcoming meeting. 

I look forward to seeing him again, and meeting his partner Kelly. 

I stripped to my shorts and took a quick swim in pond.  The bottom dropped off quickly, but the water was warm.  I had hoped to see a loon, but the sunset was stunning.

Tater and strolled back to our tent pad, just in time for an evening shower.  Our first full fifteen mile day was now behind us, and rest felt wonderful.  A few GMC maintainers were camped nearby, and walked by our tent from time to time, but otherwise we had quiet little nest to ourselves.  We both figured we’d hear Shoelace, even fifty yards away. 

The rain came in soft waves, enough of a patter to lull the mind.  Neither of us remained awake for long. 

We rolled out of camp around ten, as we do. Water was on the junction of the AT and the spur trail leading to the shelter. A small stagnant pool guarded by a flotilla of water bugs. This was all that remained of what the rocks indicated as a once vibrant stream. Before we had time to dip our bottles, friends met us.

Smooth, Cool Cucumber, and Cool Whip were there, also stopped for water at the mid-morning hour. Cool Whip gave us updates on Tess, his section-hiker squeeze, and their latest plans for rendezvous. The other men laughed.

“These people don’t have all day for your exploits there Cool Whip.” Smooth explained in his smooth way.

Tater and I headed on, fastest of the group, and energized to be with friends again.

Weather was on the way, and we could see the clouds brewing. We made for the Goddard Shelter, probably my favorite one on the whole trail. Nestled in a grove of spruce, it’s the kind of small wilderness outpost that conveys undeniably, you are in “the north.”

We ducked in to find some Nobo’s heading off, and a Mainer named Shoelace. We also met a Sobo there, who’s name I never did catch. He was spending the night.

Tater and I had lunch and waited for the rain, due to hit around 4pm. With no town stops today, we had all the time in the world to make our miles. The guys rolled in soon enough, along with a couple out for a four-day loop. Tater and I met them briefly the night before, on our way into camp.

Another couple came in with their dogs. Tater was smitten with the two labs on contact. Their owners were busy pitching their tents when the weather hit. They hunkered under canvass, we under roof.

A quarter inch or more came down in one hour-long wave. Thunder shook a couple of times, but we all sat chatting or napping. Tater braided my knot-filled mop of hair into something smooth. Then it was her turn, and I massaged her feet.

When the rain subsided, the guys announced they were staying for the night. It was tough to leave, but Tater and I wanted to push on. The Glastonbury fire tower, an iconic spot for all hikers in Vermont, was only three tenths to the north. We headed on. The couple from the night before followed.

Tater and I had the tower to ourselves for almost half an hour. What a gorgeous spot. I farted and sent her coughing down the gangway though. Oh the hazards of Knorr Sides, what a way to kill the mood!

We sat at the base of the tower for a time and continued on to Kid Gore Shelter The other couple was setting up camp as we left, their trail taking them off to the west by morning. We wished them safe travels.

Not twenty minutes later, thunder boomed again. An unexpected shower overtook us in minutes, turning the trail into a slippery mess of mud and rocks. Suddenly, as if by memory, we found our trail legs at last. We glided along the slopes, and my Garmin repeatedly chirped nineteen minute miles. We were flying.

Kid Gore came into view and faked us out. We could see underneath the pilons and there was no sign of trekking poles, or any other indicators of life. When we rounded the bend however, the place was full. Some seven backpackers were already snuggled in their bags, the Mainer from earlier among them. At six-thirty with the sun still very much out, it was a little shocking.

We found a sheltered tent spot about seventy feet below the shelter, and pitched in the still falling rain. Tater grabbed our water while I fussed with the rocky ground. At last, we had a home, and went inside.

She muttered something about five star hotel accommodations, then fell asleep. I cooked us both some mac and cheese in the vestibule. When I looked over, I realized she had nodded off spoon in hand.

She woke, muttered something about “three-star Micheline noods” and devoured the bowl. She handed back my cooking pot, and was asleep again in minutes. My heart bursts for her at times.

I got up and stowed our food in the bear box. Like clockwork she came out and we both brushed our teeth before bed. The rain had stopped, and dripping droplets from laden leaves led us both to the world of dreams. Til the shelter roof began to rumble, reverberating a strange sound down the hill. Right into our nylon home.

“Is that human?” I wondered. The roaring sound occurred again. I decided it was. Nevertheless, I sprang from my tent quickly. I walked up the spur trail to find the shelter empty, and the two Long Trail ladies were packing nearby. They confirmed that the sound was the dozen or so high school aged kids camped there last night.

By the time I got back Tater was nearly ready to go. We had a long day to accomplish, including a resupply in Bennington. Neither of us wanted to stay in town, but the Rec Center there had showers, and the prospect of clean laundry was alluring.

The eleven miles to VT 9 were uneventful, though we did run into that group of kids. We also lost the trail on the edge of a pond. The final descent to the road however, was a total asskicker. Tater remembered doing this section with her mother.

“My mother called it a wonderful, and tragic day.” She recalled. Tragic on the knees for sure. Relentless slab after slab, a drop of 800ft in .2 miles. A local would later inform us that three ambulances has been out to pickup injured hikers here in the past month.

What stuck in my mind was the climb on the otherside of the road. Til now I had never once ventured into Bennington, though I’ve hiked this section twice.

A thru named Chandler came down the stairs behind us, lifting his headnet when he approached us in the shade. He has a resection at the Catamount Inn, and told us he had a shuttle inbound.

Tater and I had been trying to hitch without avail, so this was wonderful news. Both from the North West, he and Tater had much to tall about on the way into town.

Chandler lacked a trail name because he averages 27 miles per day. I met a hiker like this in the Whites named Oliver a few years back. Too fast to have a trail family, this is a harsh, lonely approach to the trail. Chandler had a strict time limit due to school though, and dialed everything in around it. His Gossamer Gear G4 probably weighed eighteen pounds with resupply. Light and fast.

The driver dropped us at the Rec Center and the first novelty in that place was the bottle fill fountain. Tater and I excitedly made trips to it, intermittently interuppting the woman checking us in as we did so. The lady seemed more amused than annoyed. For two bucks we were allowed access to the locker rooms.

Tater made a spa day of it. The place offered no soap or towels, but ten minutes under and automatic hand dryer gave her hair a salon finish. My dumb ass however, had a far different experience.

Sure, the man in his 70s naked and bathing enthusiastically under the water was a little odd. It was when the entire junior swim team, boys aged seven to maybe ten came in and filled the stalls, that I became less than comfortable. The bandanas I brought in with me as towels were mistakenly soaked within the first thirty seconds. I was a mess.

Loofah in hand, I had hoped to make use of the regular bathroom hand soap, but those dispensers looked empty since about 2005. Finally I resolved myself to change into my dry pair of shorts and rain jacket.

In the lobby I dripped, munching on apples found in a cardboard box labeled “free.” I shuffled, dripped, and made room for people on the waiting bench, while Tater, in ecstasy, finished her hotwater bliss. She even employed the dry sauna. When she bounced out of the woman’s locker room glowing I, looking like a drowned rat, looked up miserably. The expression didn’t last long, she’s kind of a goddess, even in Frogg Toggs. We decided to do laundry.

Among the great mysteries of the cosmos, why so few laundromats have bathrooms, is well positioned. This one was spotlessly clean though. Tater made a call home, while I sourced pizza at the Domino’s next door. At a folding counter turned restaurant table, we demolished the pie in minutes. Woe to they who do not love Hawaiian pizza. They don’t know what they’re missing.

Resupply was town chore number three, and the most difficult. We wandered towards a Henry’s Market. Savanah, the front clerk, was arranging produce outside when we dropped our packs. She took a liking to us immediately, the way one does when they like stay cats. We had absolutely no luck at Henry’s for resupply, but Savannah gave us her number, and directions to Walmart.

We found a Dollar General on the way, and a decent gas station where I bought a few noodle packs and bars. We finished our Dollar General run quickly enough, though we were super low on canister fuel. I scoured the place for anything that might run in my alcohol stove, HEET, isopropyl, anything. No luck.

At checkout Tater was caught between an angry homeless man telling her to hurry up, and the lady at the register, who was busy explaining why she needed to have all her teeth removed. A woman approached me and offered us a ride back to trail.

“That’s dangerous!” One Dollar General employee barked to her.

“They’re a couple, they’re safe!” She retorted.

“Sometimes they work in pairs, you know, to murder people!” The employee replied nonplussed and well within earshot.

Bennington. Is. Ghetto.

Thankfully Savannah from Henry’s rolled in and whisked us away, she had gotten off work a few minutes before. A rare gem in this very odd Vermont town, she offered us showers and a night at her place. Frazzled, we declined. We just wanted to get back to the mountains. She dropped us off and bid us farewell. Tater and I were so grateful to her.

The climb up to Melville Nauhiem was as difficult as I remembered. Our bodies too, were being tested for fortitude. Such a climb, directly after a pizza and the ice cream sandwichs we ate the General, is typically ill-advised. We made it though, “nutrients” intact.

We didn’t bother with dinner. Once my tent was up we snuggled in and fell asleep. What a day!